Coffee with a Shot of Whiskey
by Ellsweetella
Summary: Part 3 of Coffeeshop AU. For Maleval Week Day 1-dancing (and a little cuddling). Rated M for light smut.


**A/N: For Maleval Week Day 1. Contains a little smut, therefore rated M.**

**Part 3 of coffeeshop AU.**

**Coffee with a Shot of Whiskey**

Mallory needs alcohol. She needs coffee. She needs Diaval. She needs Aurora. She needs.

She needs to sleep.

She can't. She wants to sleep but she can't sleep.

One a.m.

There is an emptiness inside of her that fills her up, a black hole that constantly collapses on itself, breaking her into a million empty pieces. The pain and sadness that are inside of her builds up the emptiness and pulls the gaping hole wide open.

She hates it. Hates herself for being like this.

Every night, when she is alone, when it is dark, the thoughts come creeping in. She wishes they would stop.

She knows she can stop them. The thoughts disappear when she is happy but when she is alone, on this day, everything just falls apart.

Her parents died thirteen years ago, on this day.

May fifteen.

She needs to be strong.

She has to.

For herself.

She gets out of bed, giving up on sleep. She doesn't want to take sleeping pills. Doesn't want to be overly reliant on them.

It has been months since she needed them.

She stares at the phone, wondering if she can call Diaval. She wants someone to talk to. Someone who understands her, who knows what to do, who doesn't push, who waits, who listens.

He is probably asleep.

The phone stares at her and she looks away, her fingers trembling.

…

Diaval wakes up with a start, sweat dotting his forehead.

One a.m, May fifteen.

His fingers brush the scar on his face, darkness licking his heart.

Thirteen years ago, a car accident took away his brother and left him scars-both physical and emotional.

He can never forget the accident. How sudden it was. He remembered being in awe of his brother, slightly jealous that he has his own car. He remembers watching the fellow cars on the road go by. He remembers the song that was playing over the radio. He remembers the grin on his brother's face as he drove carefully.

And he remembers the pain. The blinding pain that seared through his body. He remembers red. Red that splattered across his eyes.

And he remembers staring up at the piercing sunlight, unable to move, wondering if he was dead.

Sleep escapes him. He knows that there is nothing he can do to claim it back.

The darkness in him is overwhelming, tainting his thouhgts.

There is a full moon.

It is dangerous to be alone.

He gets up, and goes to the living room.

The phone stares at him and he stares back, his fingers cold.

….

The doorbell rings at one forty a.m.

Diaval grabs a shirt and pulls it on before opening it.

She is there, before him, her hair scraped back into a messy bun, loose tendrils framing her pale face. She looks younger, vulnerable, her green eyes clouded.

He is shocked beyond words, not able to believe her presence.

"I'm sorry. I woke you up didn't I?" she is unusually soft.

"No, I was still awake," he admits. "Come in."

She nods weakly and enters his house.

Despite all that, she still has that icy look on her, the strong steel that she naturally possesses.

She sits on his sofa, staring into space, her fingers curled up into a tight fist.

He doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know what to say.

She is the one who breaks the silence.

"Sorry," she apologises once again. "I didn't know where else to go."

He nods and sits next to her while giving her the personal space she needs.

"I couldn't sleep," she states simply.

"Me too," he murmurs.

There is a mutual understanding between them. They are plagued by memories, by nightmares, by the scars that they can't erase. They are haunted by the past.

"Do you want a drink?" he offers.

She accepts and he goes to the kitchen counter to prepare something that helps with sleep.

It is something he has only done once or twice but it has worked before.

He warms the glasses up and pours sugar and the freshly brewed coffee into it. He stirs the mixture and adds in a shot of Irish whiskey and stirs once more. He floats the whipped cream on top and serves it to her.

"This is…?"

"Irish coffee. Coffee with a shot of whiskey," he explains.

She takes the glass and drinks it through the cream. She hums contently, a sigh caught in her throat. He watches as tension leaves her body with every sip she takes and she is soon done with her drink.

"I take that you liked it?" he smiles, sipping on his own glass.

She shrugs teasingly. "It's nice, I suppose."

"It's hard to get a compliment from you," he sighs dramatically.

She rolls her eyes and brushes the corner of his mouth with her fingers. He can still feel her warmth when her fingers are gone.

"You had cream on your mouth," she says, the corners of her lips curling into a smile. She gets up. "Are you going to teach me how to make another or do I Google it and possibly destroy your kitchen?"

He springs up from his sofa.

It is no secret how protective he is over his precious kitchen.

"I will make more. Sit," he half commands.

"You really don't trust me in your kitchen," she sighs, plopping back down onto the sofa.

She is feeling better now. Not because of the coffee but because of Diaval's company. It is nice to have someone with her.

And so is he. He is less tensed, the darkness slowly getting under control.

They keep each other in check.

He makes a few glasses on an impulse (twenty, to be exact).

She drinks them, indulging in the warmth that spreads from her throat all the way down to her cold toes, warming her body up.

The whiskey burns her throat and she loves it. She loves the sensation as it slides down, leaving a trail of fire behind.

She watches as Diaval drinks, laughing at his clumsiness, stopping to wipe his mouth.

His eyes burn into hers and the whiskey makes her head fuzzy.

She doesn't remember why she has stopped drinking alcohol.

The coffee disappeared and all they are drinking is whiskey.

…..

Piano and violin meet in a pas de deux.

The empty glasses lay forgotten on the table.

His breath is warm against her neck and his arms strong around her waist. Her own hands are wrapped around his neck and their bodies are pressed together intimately. Alcohol clouds their mind.

Whiskey masked by coffee is still whiskey.

Lust, love and affection pushed away because of fear still exist.

Their bodies sway to the music that fills the apartment, the melody of love and promises intoxicating them.

His lips are barely inches away from hers and she can almost feel it pressed against her own plump ones. She wants it on hers. She wants him. Wants to forget, wants to drown.

He can almost taste her. Her scent fills his noses. She is all earth and spring, roses and lilies. He fights the temptation to kiss her, to press his lips against her and forget everything else.

Their hips sway. Their eyes are hooded.

The ghosts of the past are forgotten, covered by the alcohol and lust running through their veins, their need for intimacy.

Their dance is getting dangerous, almost to the breaking point.

One move and they will fall from the tight rope separating friends and lovers.

One step, one push and they can never look back.

The music stops.

Their dance pauses.

Their eyes meet, green and black, merging as one.

And the music starts once more.

_Oh, you're in my veins_

Their lips meet.

_And I cannot get you out._

There are only both of them left on the still Earth.

_Oh you're all I taste_

They fall onto the bed, their bodies stripped off the clothing that restrained them.

_At night inside of my mouth_

His lips leaves her bare skin burning, aching for more. She is drowning in his heated kisses, relishing in them.

Her nails dig into his back and she littered kisses on his neck, tasting the salty sweat that rolls down. There is a deep rumbling from the back of his throat and she laughs, kissing his Adam's apple, feeling his vibrations.

_Oh you run away_

He pulls away, his eyes piercing hers.

She reaches out and brushes his scars, scars which stories she doesn't know. Stories that she will wait for him to feel comfortable enough to share.

She pulls him down for a passionate kiss, their lips captured together.

He is hard against her. His desire flows from his eyes, his touches, his kisses.

And she wants him.

'_Cause I am not what you found_

His lips latch on her hardened nipples, eliciting a quiet moan from her. She arches her back, asking for more, begging for more. And he gives it to her. His hands reach down, circling her clit, sending shocks of pleasure down her spine.

Her legs wrap around his hips and she feels his length pressing against her entrance.

He enters her and she grips onto him, pretty sure that she will leave scratch marks on his pale back.

_Oh you're in my veins_

They are drowning in each other, desperate for more. Their limbs are tangled together in a frenzy, as they bring each other to the brink of pleasure.

Alcohol runs in their veins.

He was warm inside of her, filling her up. She rolls on top of him, claiming her dominance with a wicked smirk. With each rock and circle of her hips, pleasure courses through their bodies. His nails dig into her hips and his head is hung back in sheer pleasure.

His name falls off her lips.

_And I cannot get you out_

They cling onto each other, as if they are the only things that can keep them afloat in the series of strong undercurrents.

He thrusts into her, quick and raw, relishing in the growls that she makes. His free hand rubs on her clit, rendering her helpless and writhing under his attacks. It is sensual, raw, primitive, letting the lust and alcohol take control of their bodies.

Her cries are muffled against his shoulder, her body trembling, quivering under his touches.

She is unravelling before him, addicted to the pleasure he brings, addicted to his groans, his moans.

She finds herself at the tipping point, a small nudge and she will break apart as pleasure hit her in consecutive waves, without an inch of breathing time.

He cups her face, and looks at her. She is a goddess, the one he loves, the one he wants to love, to be allowed to love.

The intensity of his gaze makes her heart stop.

And she falls apart in his arms, allowing the pleasure to overwhelm her.

He comes right after her, feeling her walls tightening around his member.

They lie there panting, recovering from the sex.

They can hear their racing heartbeats in their ears.

"I love you," he whispers into her ears, the three words he has been holding back, the three words that can destroy everything they have been working on.

She is asleep, curled against his chest.

The frown is still there, but it has loosened up.

He finds himself falling asleep, cuddling with her.

…

_Will leave you in the morning_

She wakes up with a throbbing headache, finding herself pressed against something warm, soft and hard all at the same time. Confused, she looks up and finds the sleeping face of Diaval, who is currently naked.

His arms are draped around her body and her breath catches in her throat.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Bits and pieces of last night's events comes flooding into her mind, terrifying her.

They crossed the line.

And she doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know how to make a relationship work. She doesn't know how to be a lover.

She…

Last night's events did not happen.

She dresses herself and leaves.

She is a coward, through and through.

…..

_And find you in the day_

She doesn't go to the café the next morning.

And they are back to square one.


End file.
